


echoes unspoken

by voksen



Series: breadsports [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bread Sex, Food Porn, Help, I Don't Even Know, Identity Porn, Kink Meme, M/M, Object Insertion, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "yo how about one day valjean masturbates anally with a loaf of bread and then javert has buttsex with him and he finds the bread loaf and doesn't know what to do with it so he cries and runs away</p><p>i've written this before and it wasn't serious at all it was like one paragraph i just want to see someone try to do this seriously in a completely serious way."</p><p>Well okay then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	echoes unspoken

The soul of M. Madeleine might have forgotten Toulon and, by the grace of God and the Bishop of Digne, have at last healed from slavery and neglect; but his body was still the body of Jean Valjean.

It bore Valjean's scars, whip and manacle, brand and weal; its strength was the strength of Jean-the-jack, though Madeleine never had occasion to use it in full; its hungers were the same: both the simple food of its youth and the darker, secret things it had come to crave in the depths of hell.

Most times Madeleine could satisfy it with his own right hand (Valjean's hand, rough and calloused from nineteen years of hard labor) and the memory of those things he had done and that had been done to him in another life. There were times when that was not enough, when he dismissed his housekeeper, locked his doors and lay naked on his bed, imagining a dank cell, the ever-present pounding of the waves, the reek of sea and filth.

He would slick his fingers in his own mouth, remembering the taste of other men's skin as he sucked at them; the heavy weight of fingers and cock pressing over his tongue, and over all of it the inescapable saltiness: seasalt and long-dried sweat. Madeleine's hands were clean, tasting of nothing, but such things could never be forgotten.

He would rock back on the bed - a soft goosefeather mattress, not the straw-and-rock of Toulon; in this, too, he had to imagine - and spread his legs wide, thighs straining, hips canted up; he had only his own fingers to satisfy him now. Sometimes he was gentle, flicking against the rim of his hole with the tip of one soaked finger until it slipped in slick and painless (some began their time in Toulon as kind men, before it was beaten out of them); sometime harsher, pushing them straight into himself to feel the sudden burning stretch, his cock jerking as it, too, remembered.

This was almost always enough; he would come with his fingers thrusting in his hole, his other hand wrapped around his prick, one name or another occasionally finding its way to his mouth: _Serge! - Michel! - Louis!_ \-- and once, unexpectedly, the day he had been surprised in the factory by the new arrivals from Paris, _Javert!_

There had not even been a handful of times when such proved insufficient, when his body hungered for more than he alone could give it, but this - this was one of those days. Madeleine fell back on the bed, unfulfilled, achingly hard, achingly _empty_ in a place deep enough inside him that his fingers could not reach. Sweat dampened his hair, his bedsheets, trickled down his hips; his breathing, his heart racing. He needed more.

Before he had arrived in Montreuil-sur-Mer he had used other men, a short succession of glances, touches, rough fumblings and alleyways on his long road north from Digne; here, where he was known, he could not risk his reputation. He had once in his desperation used a candle; unfortunately, the ones standing on the mantle were burnt so low they could be of no service. (He spared a silent apology to the spirit of the Bishop for having considered it, and then the thought was driven away as he glanced aside, the movement shifting the sheets over his prick and sending a new surge of twisting need through his gut.)

It seemed impossible that there was nothing suitable; the thought of going without, of leaving this lust unfulfilled made him groan in agony. And then, by chance, his eyes fell on the covered tray intended for his lunch; he peeled himself out of bed and nearly _limped_ across to his desk, lifting the cover: perhaps the handle of a--

A bowl of soup. A ramekin of sweet butter. A _ficelle._

Madeleine's eyes fell on the latter and stayed, a strange hilarity playing in his mind. The little loaf was of a width with his cock, and nearly twice as long; if he greased it well-- no. It was absurd, it was obscene.

He brushed a hand over his leaking prick, groaned again, cupped it tight to his body. His balls tightened almost painfully.

He picked up the loaf, his hand wrapping around it in a loose grip, testing the solid, hard crust, feeling the slight dips and cracks. He licked dry lips, realizing he was already imagining the way it would stretch him out as the broader middle sank in, filling him up all the way, as he needed, as he craved.

Before he could change his mind he had snatched up the softened butter and smeared it over the loaf, rubbing it in until full half the bread was greased slick and shining, rough edges smoothed and dulled, until he could stand it no longer and fell to his knees there on the floor before his desk.

He was long ready - wet and loose from the play of his own fingers - and it slid into him, the first inches with ease and then, oh God - the stretch-- Madeleine sobbed with the pleasure of it, pushing it further in, his cock jerking beneath him as he twisted the bread inside himself and began to thrust, fucking himself on the makeshift phallus with frantic jerks of his hips, driving it deep and deeper. He imagined broad hands clenched on his hips, pulling him back in a sharp rhythm; whined deep in his throat as he imagined a man kneeling behind him, using his body brutally, without care; imagined--

The front door slammed shut; Madeleine froze: he had locked it. He must have done.

"M'sieur le Maire?"

\--God in Heaven, it was Javert's voice, and it rang in Madeleine's ears and down through Valjean's cock, liquid beading wet and full at the tip as he remembered the many ways Javert had looked at him over their diverse acquaintance--

Bootsteps in the hall. Madeleine pulled the bread free, strangling on a gasp as it slid across every sensitive spot in him on the way out, and tossed it aside, then stumbled to his feet and over to the bed.

Javert knocked at the door; called for him again with a sound almost like concern in his voice, and Madeleine pulled the sheet from the bed and wrapped it about himself before stammering "What is it?"

"M'sieur - " he sounded concerned, nearly uncertain, far from the grim jailer now - "are you alright? They said that you--"

He opened the door. Madeleine stared at it as it swung open, standing stock still as if nailed to the floor, watching it slowly reveal Javert to him and him to Javert.

Watching the shock slowly dawn in his Inspector's eyes as it sank in that Madeleine was standing wrapped in a bedsheet - obviously naked beneath - the folds dampening to translucence where his prick pushed against them.

"Ah," Javert said, and at the same time Madeleine said " _Javert_ ," in a voice that was half his and half Jean Valjean's, and Javert swallowed harshly and stepped into the room, heat sparking in the midst of confusion.

Between them they made short work of the police uniform; Madeleine remembered the scars arrayed on his back only after he already had his hand on Javert's thick cock, his still-greasy hand sliding over it and drawing a strange hoarse grunt from him.

He pushed Javert back to the bed, shoving him flat on it; he went easily, willingly, demanding almost no strength at all. The confusion lingered in Javert's eyes as Madeleine crawled atop him; he went so far as to say "Monsieur--"

That was not what Madeleine - not what _Valjean_ \- wanted of him; before he could say more, Madeleine reached down, grasped his cock again (Javert's breath choked to a stop) and sank down onto it in one long glide that did not stop until he was fully sheathed.

"God--" Javert said, and " _Christ_ ," and then Madeleine was moving on him, deep rocking rolls of his hips that took nearly all of him at once, again and again.

" _Yes_ ," Madeleine said as Javert finally tried an uncertain thrust up against him, the blunt head of his cock pressing in in just the right way, sweet and hot and thick inside him. He let his head fall back, back arching to drive himself down harder. He could smell the salt sea air - this had never happened to Jean Valjean, but it could have - he might almost have welcomed it even then.

Javert's hand closed over his prick, tentatively at first, gently, and then stroking him in earnest as Madeleine cried out and shuddered under his touch. His eyes were wide, staring at Madeleine moving atop him, darkened entirely with lust now instead of shock; Madeleine could see the echo of his younger self - as he had known him before--

He came with a shout, his come splattering in long wet smears over Javert's belly and up his chest; Javert's free hand found his thigh, digging in, nails biting deep as he followed almost immediately, spending deep inside him with one last jerk upwards.

Madeleine did not want to move, did not want to lose that thick-stretched fullness inside him-- but he knelt up anyway, breath hissing as Javert's still-hard cock slid free, and collapsed beside him on the bed, his back with all its revealing scars pressed safely against the mattress, finally sated.

Javert was silent as his breathing slowed; when at last it seemed he had regained control of himself, he sat up, passing a hand across his face, through his tousled hair, and glanced briefly back over his shoulder at Madeleine.

He met Javert's gaze evenly, but said nothing; truthfully, he had no idea of what _to_ say.

And then the moment was over and Javert was looking away again, standing and going to retrieve his discarded clothing. He dressed in silence as well, though when his jacket was halfway buttoned he stopped dead, making a queer choking noise that had Madeleine sitting half-up in alarm. 

Before he could ask what the matter was, Javert had fled to the door, clothes still only half on and looking quite disheveled. Madeleine had never seen him so and found he enjoyed the sight. "I'll take my leave," he muttered almost unintelligibly, and was gone.

Madeleine blinked - and then saw there, on the floor across the room, half-hidden behind a chair, where Javert's gaze had unfortunately strayed at last, the damned, damning loaf of bread.


End file.
